exhibit A

so, i'm quitting smoking.

another habit of mine is shopping. my current logic is that at least shopping won't literally kill me; shopping merely ruins most plans for a happy, comfortable future.

so i went shopping with my mother...an impromptu trek to the mall in the first freezing cold day of the season. you know...the day that your boogers freeze as soon as you walk out the door and you have to resist pinching your nostrils to defrost them. oh, and the day you realize that you really should use that -30 degree windshield washer fluid all year long just so that on a day like today, when you're going 80 down the highway, you can actually clean all that white salty grime off your windshield. i should probably get some winter blades too.

so we get to the mall so my mother can buy some jewelry for our poor relatives in florida, and i end up spending about $250 on myself. oh, and $40 on a co-worker. but i probably could've better spent that forty bucks. though, it kind of goes along with this inside joke that her and i have, so, whatever. she'll like it.

sometimes i'll try to talk myself out of buying clothes. that is, when i'm not trying to break the nicotene fits. i'll look at the cute clothes and realize that i am not actually picturing them on me. i think what i am picturing is someone that much more closely resembles Angelina Jolie, or even that girl that works down in the main office at work. ultimately, i'll conclude that what really will look hot is if i get my ass in shape; not this fucking kickass denim jacket with those killer fucking buttons.

after the ridiculously selfish time at Ann Taylor Loft (i'm really not a yuppie...even though i have an SUV and a cute dog that i named after a classic rock band...i have tattoos! and piercings!) i went to get some lattes while my mother made a pit-stop at the chain store bathroom. i was surprised to be the only one at the joint, and was initially pleased that i wouldn't have to wait fifty years for my overpriced drinks. my jubilee quickly turned to dismay when i saw that there were three men behind the counter. two were cleaning very diligently--fine. but the third. god, the third--middle aged, awkward facial hair, clumsy green apron. he was singing. singing My Favorite Things. he wasn't simply humming, nor was he embarrassed into laughter or silence when i approached the counter. instead, he continued bouncing toward, then away, from me, flailing an arm here or there, eventually working his way back the order counter. he approached with overzealous flair and belted out his final verse, altered a bit to accommodate a mention of his bewildered, solitary customer and her desire for coffee in a mall at christmastime.

i'm not sure if i've felt more uncomfortable in such a capitalistic situation. to make it worse, i saw one of the two cleaners shoot a dirty look to the other as the leader finished his solo.

i ordered, then stepped aside very quickly, avoiding much eye contact. i knew that any kind of eye contact would hint that you may tolerate his spiel on that cutesy gift set on the shelf or how scrumptious it is to have that little sprinkle of cocoa on your cappucino. like anyone can even taste that fucking shit!!

so anyway...

i'm still standing there alone when he gives me the two orders, but he'd screwed up one of them. my mother's. do i confront this jolly baffoon? do i make him look even more ridiculous than he already does? nope. i say thank you and walk swiftly to meet my mom, the foam of my latte oozing out of my travel lid. i spot my her as i descend on the escalator and she waves meekly. i hand her the drink, explaining that they only had hot chai, not cold. must be a seasonal thing.

i'm such a shit.